Hope you all enjoy my latest story and thanks to my friend Shannon for her expertise in making it grammatically correct.
Chapter One
The car seems to suddenly appear from nowhere. I am casually striding along the footpath of an everyday suburban residential street, heading toward my home, still two blocks away. I am trailing a few steps behind, but close to passing, two young boys, of primary school (pre-high school) age, who are dawdling and kicking stones. I am only thinking how they were traits of mine when I was their age around 50 years ago, when out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a car failing to negotiate the corner ahead. Instantly it is heading directly toward the two young boys and myself, showing no sign of even slowing.
I have mere milliseconds to react, and yet the whole scenario seems to develop in slow motion. At least, that's how I recall it. I can see the car closing on the young boys at a rapid rate. Although I am now sixty, somehow my reflexes respond, I determine that if this vehicle hits these boys, it's going to cause serious injuries. Who knows, could even be fatal. All of this passes through my brain in a flash, obviously two seconds at most.
I have been closing the gap between myself and the two boys as they ambled along, laughing and joking together. Instinctively, I launch myself toward the boys, my right hand grabbing the boy on the right's shoulder, dragging him toward the fence line of the house we are passing. The boy on the right falls to his left under the pressure of my right arm, falling against his buddy ... I am later to learn they are brothers, one 11 and the other 9.
I clearly recall, in that frightening moment when the boy on the right falls against his brother on his left and they both tumble to the ground against the fence, that I am now unavoidably in the path of the runaway car. I look through the windscreen as I brace my body for the inevitable impact and see an oldish woman -- she appears older than me -- her face reflecting a look of horror at the unfolding scene. Her hands are gripping the steering wheel, but she's not steering, she's hanging on for the wild ride.
Then, I feel searing pain as the car misses the two falling boys by mere inches and hits my body with full frontal force. I feel myself catapulted into the air. Still, I am seeing this unfold in slow motion. Where will I land? Oh god, please don't let me be impaled on this picket fence alongside me.
One often hears and sees footage of road trauma and how a car hitting a pedestrian will send that person up over the top of the car. But for me, I find I am propelled forward and my limp body is thrown over that picket fence, and I land on the lawn of a house. The car powers on as if the aged woman driver has no capacity to put a foot on the brake pedal.
I hear it hit something beyond, causing the car to eventually stop, the motor still revving. It has either hit another fence -- the side one that separates this house from next door -- or could even have hit a part of the house. My first relief is that my landing has been softer than if I'd gone over the car and landed on the hard road surface. But I am in pain ... both legs, at least one arm, and my head hurt. I think I'm in trouble.
I can hear people's voices; it seems the noise of the accident has brought onlookers from everywhere. A woman is bending over me, asking how I am. Vaguely, I assess she appears to be of my generation. I tell her that I hurt in a lot of different places. She insists that I don't move, stay exactly where I am, and for emphasis, she rests a hand on my chest to ensure I do. Fortunately, that's one of the few places that isn't hurting.
I am conscious of the woman talking to me, in nice, reassuring tones, telling me that emergency services have been called, that I will be alright. She tells me that I don't appear to be bleeding badly anywhere. My fear is that I may be internally.
I hear sirens approaching and am relieved to know that professional help is on its way. "What about the boys, are they okay?" I hear myself asking.
"Oh, I don't know, I only saw you in my front yard. Who are the boys, are they yours?"
"Oh no, not mine. I was walking down the street and these two young schoolboys were walking in front of me. I was about to pass them when the car came out of nowhere. I managed to reach out and push the boys to one side, but I can't remember if the car still hit them."
"Just a minute! Don't move, wait right there." The homeowner leaves me laying on her front lawn, removing that reassuring hand from my chest. I look about me, see some gawkers standing at what is left of the front picket fence, staring at my misfortune. The caring woman returns quickly, once more dropping to her knees by my side, she has a kind, caring face, "They are ok, you don't have to concern yourself with the boys, my neighbour is with them and they seem unharmed. It sounds like you did a very brave thing."
"Oh, I don't know about brave, I just acted on instinct."
We are interrupted by the arrival of two paramedics, who quickly begin to assess my injuries and administer some pain relief. In a short time, they place me on a spinal board.
'Just in case,'
they say, and I am transported in an ambulance to the hospital.
I am not aware of much over the next 24 hours. My sister, who seems to be constantly sitting beside my hospital bed whenever I briefly wake, tells me that the doctors have kept me heavily sedated. X-rays reveal that I have a broken right arm, a fractured left wrist, and a broken left leg while my right leg has escaped with cuts and scratches ... severe bruising too. I am hooked up to intravenous drips for sustenance and nutrition.
My still married younger sister is my main closest relative these days. My wife died two years ago. I have avoided entering a new relationship, not that there haven't been a few widows and divorcees that have either indicated their availability or been recommended by friends. Maybe I should have encouraged one of them along the way, but who could have predicted I would have both hands incapacitated for possibly weeks. At least, that's what the doctors tell me. I am likely to need a willing pair of hands around the clock to feed me, hold a glass or cup for me to drink from, and let's face it, pull my cock out of my pants when I need to pee.
I won't even dare worry yet how I am going to wipe my bum. For now, the wonderful nurses here at the hospital attend to that and I have a catheter inserted so I don't have to worry about getting out of bed to pee.
My sister informs me that the police officer investigating the accident has been to visit me in hospital, but I was either asleep or sedated when he called by. He asked my sister to let him know when I am awake and lucid because he needs to complete his report before they can consider if charges will be laid against the woman driver for the injury and mayhem that she caused. The policeman also told my sister that two witnesses to the accident have told how I was a hero to push the two young boys aside and take the full brunt of the out-of-control vehicle's power. He suggested that his superintendent intends to recommend me for some kind of bravery award.
Two nights after the accident, with my sister still maintaining her bedside vigil, a young couple appears in the doorway of my shared hospital room. In the other bed is a man, close to my age, who is recovering from a cancer operation. Initially, I expect this young couple is here to see him because they don't look at all familiar to me. My immediate reaction is more's the pity because the young woman is beautiful ... a great looking blonde, and as the pair head toward my bed and not my neighbour's, I observe that she has a drop-dead gorgeous figure to match the beautiful face. Who can this be?
"Mr. Collins?" the young woman asks in a slightly higher than normal pitched voice, the way women do in particular when they are unsure if they have the right person.
